


Blood and Sand

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, Rambling note section at the end, They needed five more minutes of movie, lol ow my heart, so i did it myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16144112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: Brother Diarmuid went back. How could he live with himself if he didn't?





	Blood and Sand

"Where to now?"

The question shook him, was too big for his mind to wrap around properly. Slowly, he dragged his wide, glassy eyes away from the beach, where the Mute was battling, and onto the grizzled sailor in front of him.

_'Where to now?'_

His heart thundered in his ears as Diarmuid unconsciously tugged a hand through his gnarled curls. The sun was bright and warm as it suddently broke the clouds, but Diarmuid didn't feel it.

The Relic. His brothers. All gone.

Even the Mute, soon.

The Mute.

The monk raised his eyes back to the shore. Three soldiers were left, and even at this distance, Diarmuid could see some sort of bolt sticking out of the Mute's side. His stomach lurched and he knew he'd made a terrible mistake. He knew he had to go back.

"Well?" He prodded. The old face was lined with worry.

"B-back," Diarmuid heard his numb lips say.

"Back? Wha' do yeh mean, 'back', boy? They'll kill yeh."

Instead of arguing, the young man immediately began shucking layers of heavy clothing until he was down to his trousers, ignoring the noises of protest the sailor made.

"Wait for us, then. I c-can't leave him here," he said, flinching when the biting cold touched his bare skin. He shivered, but braced himself before he added, "I'll pay."

The monk glanced at the shore again in time to see the Mute fall to one knee. His stomach clenched.

Before the old man could say another word, Diarmuid uttered a quick prayer prayer in Gaelic, and plunged into the icy ocean.

The cold cut through him like a thousand tiny knives piercing his skin. His muscles seized up and he managed to suck in a quick gasp before the water closed over his head. Silence.

He fought through the frigid shock and thrashed around, trying to synchronize his arms and legs in his attempt to propel himself back to up. Agonizingly slow, his head broke the surface and he sucked in another greedy lungful of air.

He'd just started moving forward when a hand latched painfully onto Diarmuid's shoulder and hauled him out of the water as if he were no more than a drowning pup. He was thrown roughly back into the boat.

Something hard hit his chest before he could raise his hands in defense. His heart leapt to his throat and the dim thought  _'please, not you, too,'_  flashed in his mind before he looked down at what hit him.

An oar.

Diarmuid blinked at it, confused.

"Row, then, yeh wee jackarse. If yeh'da let me talk, I coulda told yeh okay!" The old sailor snapped, tossing Diarmuid's clothes at him next, mumbling. "Jumpin' overboard, huh! Honestly."

The young man sat up, panting and pushed away the curls plastered to his face. Shuddering, he quickly got dressed and began pulling his oar through the water. He quickly fell into a repetition of asking forgiveness, praying for his lost brothers, and begging God to keep his friend safe with each stroke.

He tossed a glance back to the shore, silently.

What he saw made him do a double take. They were closer already, bless the tide, but the Mute was on all fours now, his sweat slicked back glistening in the sun. The remaining soldiers seemed to have not moved from where they stood.

"Chan eil! Eirich suas, èirich suas! Rise, seasamh, èirich suas!" Diarmuid shouted, in Gaelic. "Tha sinn a 'tighinn!"

(No! Get up, get up, -please-! Rise, stand, please get up! We're coming!)

From this distance, Diarmuid saw the man twitch and push himself back onto his heels. He could see his head shaking back and forth. He waved them off behind him without looking back.

The sailor narrowed his eyes at the monk's outcry but it would do no good to dwell. If De Merville's men hadn't noticed them paddling back by now, the yelling certainly did it. It's not like it was a secret in the open water.

"Yes!" hissed the monk.

The Knights looked at each other, to their dead leader, then to the boat, to the Mute, who was on one knees now, and then finally back to each other. They each took hesitant steps back.

Diarmuid pulled his oar harder, ignoring his ragged breath and sore muscles.

He sat back on his heels, seemingly watching the men retreat, his broad shoulders heaving. He bent his neck towards the sky and in slow motion, he pitched forward into the wet sand, where he landed on his side and didn't move again.

Diarmuid didn't realize he'd shot to his feet and was screaming until the old sailor shoved him back down on his bench.

"If yeh capsize us, there'll be no hope either of yeh, now  _back to it, lad!_ " he snarled, steadying the boat again.

_'Maybe I can touch the bottom here,'_  he thought wildly, eyeing the edge of the boat for a moment and the shore. They seemed so close.

"Don'nae feckin' do it, it's deeper than it looks," the old man interrupted his thought with a growl, "Yeh swim like a damned turkey."

Diarmuid's eyes darted toward his companion, momentarily confused.

"But turkeys cannot sw-- oh," but it was enough of a distraction that the young man could catch his breath. "But I cannot watch any longer."

He glanced back at the shore and missed the way the man rolled his eyes.

"Gimme the oar, lad. Hold onto the side and kick until your feet can touch. Chrissake," he grumbled.

In a flash, the monk had done as he was asked and carefully lowered himself into the frigid water again. Between the kicking feet and single mindedness of the oarman, it wasn't long before his toes were skimming along the bottom.

Instantly, he was off in a slow sprint, fighting against the weight of the water. He was gasping painfully long before he dragged his weary body to the Mute's side. Every muscle burned with effort.

The soldiers, Diarmuid noticed, glancing up through his wet curls, had retreated a little further. A cautious hope stole into his heart.

_'God, protect us, please,'_  the monk thought, watching the Knights out of the corner of his eye.

He crawled toward his friend until he could reach out and touch the scarred back. The older man's eyes were drawn tightly closed and he felt a prickle in his own. Was he too late?

"Dùisg! Wake up!" he panted, shaking him gently.  _"Please."_

The Mute didn't move. Diarmuid was vaguely aware of of the sound of squishing sand. His vision blurred and he shifted himself closer to his friend to grab him by the shoulder.

"Please! Please! Wake  _up!_ " the monk shook him.

Hot tears began to fall when the Mute remained unresponsive. Diarmuid rolled the larger man onto his back with difficulty. The monk touched pale, trembling fingers to the man's throat, over where his pulsepoint should be.

There. A faint but steady beat. He was alive.

Careful to avoid the thick, black bolt sticking out of his gut, Diarmuid shook the Mute on the chest.

"Ah, wake up, wake up!" he punctuated each sentence with a hard shake until something struck him in the face with enough force to make his ears ring. He thought he tasted fresh blood in his mouth.

The young monk fell back, but the Mute was up and on him before he even had a chance to gasp out a strangled, "Wai-!" His head hit the ground so hard he saw stars. Something heavy on his chest pinned him down.

"Stop! Stop! It's me! It's me!" The young man tried to say but the hand around his throat wouldn't let him get any air out. His mouth snapped open and shut as the Mute throttled him.

Diarmuid clawed at the vice-like grip, noting with terror the glazed, distant expression on the Mute's pinched face. He kicked his legs and tried to shout, tasting blood each time he tried. Sand fell from his dark hair and into the monk's eyes, forcing him to blink fiercely.

Black spots danced with the floating stars now. His lungs burned as he blindly tried to shove his friend off him. His mind raced, pushing feebly at the larger man's shoulders.

"It's just  _me_ …" he finally forced out.

His remaining energy left him and his arms flopped to his sides. One hand landed on the Mute's knee and he had enough strength to squeeze it once. His eyes rolled shut.

And like that, with a sharp grunt, the weight was gone from Diarmuid's chest and he was sucking in great, whistling breaths of the salty sea air. His fingers curled reflexively into the sand. He coughed and rolled onto his side.

The hand clamped onto the back of his neck, while another grabbed him by the shoulder to drag him up.

Diarmuid let out a hoarse yelp and began to struggle weakly against the Mute's iron grip.

"Please!  _Is e mise!_ It's me, it's me!" he launched into fearful repetition again, his voice thin and high.

It took him a long few moments for him to notice that he was the only one struggling anymore and that he was currently crushed against the older man's chest. He could feel the Mute's ragged breathing, hot against his ear. The shock of realization stilled the monk's frenzied movements.

"Are you…?" He trailed off because  _'are you all right?'_  was a ridiculous question at the moment.

Still partially blinded from the sand in his eyes, Diarmuid tensed when the hand on the back of his neck moved to cup his cheek. The Mute nodded once, drew the monk's forehead to his own and let out a shuddering breath.

The young man covered the big hand with his own and melted into the touch. He didnt notice the steady flow of tears running down his cheeks until calloused thumbs rubbed them away.

The Mute tilted Diarmuid's chin up to study him with those intense, smoldering eyes. They searched the younger man's face, hardening when he saw the bruised and bloodied lip. He 'tsked' in apparent disgust at himself and started to look away.

Now the monk caught the other man's chin, preventing him from breaking eye contact.

_"Tha e ceart gu leòr! It's o-okay,"_  he panted, shaking his head.

The mute man only grunted, apparently unconvinced. He was just so tired. His body burned with it. He let his shoulders slump and moved to rest his head on Diarmuid's shoulder for a moment. The monk unconsciously tangled a hand in his dark curls and tried to control his own rapid breathing.

Diarmuid suddenly looked around, still more than a little frantic. Hadn't there been knights?

_"Ah, an urrainn dhut coiseachd? (Can you walk?)"_  he asked after a little while.

The Mute's dark hair tickled his bruised neck as he nodded. Then a sigh. He just wanted to rest.

He felt his young friend stiffen at a sound behind them. Instantly his eyes went wide and wild and he snapped to attention, shoving the monk roughly behind him and holding him there.

He twisted around with a growl, ignoring the the painful tug of his injury, and saw the old sailor, back facing them, dragging the rowboat up to shore.

_"Fan! Fan! stad air gluasad! Stop!"_  he panted, pulling his shoulder, "He's a… friend."

At the unexpected animalistic sound, the old man jumped and spun to face them, hands out, uneasy smile. The Mute's shoulders slumped again.

"Ohhh, good, he's still kicking. Well, come on then, get 'im up an' inta the boat. If he ain't bleedin' out yet, we should, uh, get someone to look at tha'. Town up ahead has a brilliant healer. Damn fine tavern with food, horses, anythin' yeh need."

Apparently the old man was a nervous babbler. He said all this very quickly.

"Come on," Diarmuid murmured, still a bit shaky. "We should go before they decide to come back."

Slowly, so as not to startle him, the little monk got under his friend's arm and waited for him to get his feet working. The sailor held the boat steady while the pair awkwardly piled in.

While they got situated, the sailor picked at what remained of his cargo, covered Brother Cathal's body and set off.

The Mute, by Diarmuid's forceful insistance, was situated far away from the oars. (He looked like he might have been scowling a bit) The monk plodded himself down on the bench, rubbed the remaining grit out of his tired eyes and took hold of his pair.

"All righ'? I ask again, 'where to now?'"

Diarmuid looked the Mute, curled in on himself. They'd wrapped the bolt quickly to stabilized it, but dared not remove it. He looked at Brother Cathal's covered body. The ocean waves lapped at the side of the boat. The sun shined brightly on them again and this time, it was warm on Diarmuid's damp robes. He stared down at his pale, trembling hands.

This time, the sailor did not ask him again, simply let him take his time answering.

" _Dachaigh_ ," said a gruff voice. "Take us home."

Diarmuid looked up, and saw the Mute staring at him with soft eyes. Much different than on the beach. He smiled at the monk. Diarmuid's eyes stung again and not because of the sand.

" _Dachaigh_ ," the young man repeated, nodding.

* * *

NOTES: okay, i did this on a whim and actually had a real hard time with it. Is the Mute still a mute since he broke his vow? Does he believe his vow fufilled now that at least Diarmuid is safe? If i make him talk, is it just going to be Shane or Frank's voice? Because that's what i feel like will happen if i make this dude speak, ugh.

Second note; sorry if anyone here speaks Gaelic and i butchered it. Nonono, i  _know_  i butchered it because i used Google translate and all they had was Scots Gaelic, so that's what i picked. It still sounds pretty though and if anyone is interested, I'd love to learn it and/or what the difference is between the Gaelic they used in the movie vs. Scots Gaelic.

Anywho, thanks for reading. Leave some love and tell me what you'd like to see integrated in this fic. I don't really have too terribly much planned out, i just knew that Diarmuid needed to go back and thankfully, the fic version of him agreed.

Thanks again!


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